


Journeys End in Lovers Meeting

by tiger_moran



Category: Ripper Street, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Love, M/M, Multi, Past Relationship(s), possible Ripper Street spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two former lovers, now settled into new relationships, meet again. (Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty, Bella/Bennet Drake, with implied past Moran/Drake)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Journeys End in Lovers Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Ripper Street/Ritchie!verse Sherlock Holmes crossover. Set after the first series of Ripper Street but before Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows.

  The sun is shining, it is warm without being unbearably hot; it is the sort of day where Moran should be most amenable to walking with him without demonstrating such reluctance, so Moriarty wonders why precisely Moran does seem so grudging now.

    “Is something amiss, Colonel?” he enquires at last when he feels Moran, his arm linked through Moriarty’s, hesitate once more.

    Moran had been gazing off into the distance but upon being addressed he turns his head sharply and looks at Moriarty. “Huh? No, no sir, nothing wrong.”

    “You have been distracted for some time now.”

    “It’s nothing.”

    Moriarty, thoroughly unconvinced, peers into the distance himself, trying to discern the true cause of Moran’s behaviour. “Do you know them?” he asks, upon catching sight of a man and a woman walking along slowly arm in arm.

    “Him,” Moran confesses, lowering his gaze. “Not her.”

    “Well, do please enlighten me as to his identity.” Moriarty turns back to face Moran, resting his hand briefly upon the colonel’s shoulder. “Who is he?”

    “It’s Drake, sir. Bennet Drake.”

    “Ah, the good sergeant? Perhaps we might go over and introduce ourselves then.”

    “No, sir, I’d-” Moran begins to protest this but Moriarty quickly slips his arm back through Moran’s and briskly leads them onwards to where the couple have now taken a seat upon a bench. “Sir,” Moran hisses as they get near, unsure about the professor’s motives here, but it’s too late to stop now as Drake has evidently seen them.

    The sergeant stands up, the young lady with him following suit although the professor notes how Drake puts himself very slightly in front of her, largely unconsciously shielding her with his body at their approach. Courteous but cautious, although Moriarty is uncertain whether it is Moran or himself who have provoked this reaction or whether it is simply that in his line of work Drake is naturally wary.

    “I hope you will forgive the intrusion,” Moriarty says, his voice smooth and warm, adopting the friendly tones he musters when socialising with important people. “We saw you from across the park and I know that you and Moran are old acquaintances.”

    “Yes, sir, we are,” Drake says, his gaze flicking across to try to meet Moran’s, but Moran has lowered his gaze, as if ashamed. “I’m afraid though I don’t know who…?”

    Although he does know, Moriarty is certain. He knows of Moriarty’s association with Moran. Drake has even visited their town house, some years ago, although while the professor was absent. “My name is Professor James Moriarty,” he says. “Moran’s employer and… _friend_.” The pause between the last two words is brief but deliberate and he holds Drake’s blue eyes with his own momentarily as he utters them, gauging his reaction. Yes, he thinks, when Drake’s gaze flickers away, the sergeant knows that Moriarty and Moran are lovers, as Moriarty knows that once Drake was Moran’s lover. “And this must be your charming wife.” Moriarty directs his attention towards the young lady now, tipping his hat at her.

    “Yes, this is my wife, Bella.” Drake puts an arm around the lady’s shoulders, half-protective and half almost as if to show her off, so proud is he of having such a lovely creature as his companion.

    “I am very happy to make your acquaintance, sir,” she says, dipping her head into a brief, graceful bow and looking up at Moriarty through half-lowered eyelids.

    She is not, Moriarty thinks, shy precisely, but rather slightly uneasy about moving in circles she thought previously would be denied to her. A former whore, he thinks, not some jaded streetwalker forced to sell herself in dark alleys and squalid courtyards for mere pennies but a woman nonetheless forced by circumstance to enter into such a life not fully of her own will. Now that she has left that life behind and even though the life she finds herself in with Sergeant Drake is hardly one of luxury, she still cannot quite shake the notion that all this is far too good to be true.

    Beside him he feels Moran stiffen slightly as he regards Bella Drake, as her eyes come to rest on his face, slightly questioning. Clearly she senses something significant is occurring or had once occurred between her husband and this stranger, yet she cannot quite place what it is.

    “Bella, this is Colonel Sebastian Moran,” Drake tells her. “He and I were… We were acquainted, back in our army days.”

    “Delighted to meet you, Mrs Drake,” Moran says, and it sounds genuine enough, thinks Moriarty. Moran’s unease is perhaps less because his former lover has since married and more because he was simply fearful of an encounter between his past and present paramours.

    “And I you, sir,” she says, and smiles, a smile of such warmth and which truly touches her eyes so that Moran cannot help but smile back at her. She is certainly delightful, he thinks, not some ravishing beauty dolled up in great finery but precisely the sort of women he always thought Drake would take. Pretty enough, clean and neat, rather demure and willing to submit to her husband, yet with a sense about her still of some great inner strength of character.

    “I heard of you getting wed,” he tells Drake now, meeting his gaze more resolutely this time and offering him his hand. “I meant to… Well, please will you accept my sincerest congratulations now on your marriage.”

    “Thank you, Colonel.” Drake relaxes just a bit now, shaking Moran’s hand, although it still gives Moran a pang of something to hear him address him by his old rank, not by name now. How things change.

 

   And now here they are, later, the sergeant and the former colonel, in a dingy pub in Whitechapel, drawn here together even though both should be home by now. The meeting in the park was brief and tolerable enough, the two pairs parting after Moriarty had extended a dinner invitation to Drake and his wife, but clearly there was unfinished business between Drake and Moran that could not be addressed in front of Bella or the professor.

   Drake does not quite know why he’s here except that he was aware he was being shadowed, stalked even. He was not quite sure either whether upon grasping that it was Moran tailing him he was relieved or afraid, and still isn’t. He’s had moments of madness in his own life but he’s never been entirely sure that Moran is quite sane and maybe with him it wasn’t just war that turned his mind. The man is a killer, Drake knows that and would recognise it even if he knew nothing of Moran's past, but maybe Moran is not just a killer solely because sometimes it’s kill or be killed. Drake can pin nothing on either Moran or his master but he has his suspicions about the pair all right.

   But Moran is quiet and composed enough this evening, exuding a faint aura of danger, perhaps, as if that is something now permanently engrained into his skin which he can never scrub away, but Drake senses something else about him now, something that he has never seen in him before. Moran almost seems awkward even though Moriarty is not here to observe him now.

    “Look, it weren’t my idea,” he says, after setting his hat down on the table and running a hand through his hair. “Meeting you and Mrs Drake in the park like that.”

    “Your professor’s idea then?” 

   “I think he just… He wanted to see you for himself.”

    “See if I’m a threat to him, perhaps?” Drake eyes Moran questioningly.

   Moran narrows his eyes, searching for the true meaning in Drake’s words, after all there are professional threats and there are more private ones.

   “Is that why you came after me now?” Drake asks. “See if I’m a threat to you?”

    Moran bares his teeth slightly in a feral grin. “I ain’t afraid of you.”

   “No, but maybe you’re afraid of what I _think_ of you still.”

   They are pressed close together, this corner of the pub being somewhat isolated and gloomy so it’s doubtful even if the place was packed out that anyone would notice them. Perhaps not exactly the safest place even so to be having such a conversation, but maybe both men have always liked to take a bit of a risk.

   “I don’t give a rat’s arse what you think of me,” Moran says, all breezy confidence, but Drake isn’t quite sure that he believes him any more. The colonel always did strike him as a man who was secretly desperate for approval, even though he pretends to hardly care.

   “All right,” he says slowly, after taking a sip of his drink. “Why have you come after me tonight then?”

   Moran takes a swallow of his own rather tepid drink before speaking. “I meant what I said.”

   “About what?”

   “About you getting wed. I did mean to… to offer my congratulations sooner, I just… didn’t get round to it.”

   “Well… thank you, for that.” Drake sounds uncertain, as if he’s still not sure whether to believe Moran.

   “You don’t want me near her though, that’s plain enough.”

   Drake does not trouble to point out that Moran did not want him to encounter Professor Moriarty either. “I’m just… I’m not sure someone like you should be associating with my wife.”

   “Someone like me?” Moran says scathingly. “Trying to sit in judgement over me again, are you, after all we did together? What do you think I’d do?” His voice has become a low growl as he leans forward, so that his face is so close to Drake’s. “Tell her how I used to _fuck_ you, Ben, and how much you loved it?” He can practically feel the heat of Drake’s skin as the other man’s face flushes.

   “No,” he says quietly, swallowing thickly. “No, Sebastian, I don’t think you’d do that.”

   Moran withdraws just an inch or so. “Good, cos I wouldn’t. Whether you want to tell your pretty wife of your past habits or keep it secret ‘til your grave that’s your concern, not mine.”

   “I just… I don’t think you’re a good man.” Drake says this lightly, as if joking, yet they both know he’s being serious. Even so Moran lets out a sharp laugh.

  “No, I suppose I ain’t.”

   Still his face is close to Drake’s and there’s a definite moment when their blue eyes meet and it occurs to them both that it would be so, so easy to press their lips together, and after that… perhaps…

   Both sit back in their seats, turning their faces away. 

   “I don’t do that no more,” Drake says.

   “Neither do I!” Moran says sharply. Drake laughs now and Moran glares at him. “What?”

   “You being so committed to someone?” Drake is still laughing. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, just… it don’t seem your style.”

   Moran shrugs and begins to roll up a cigarette. “People change.” Although if he listened to himself maybe even he’d wonder if he can really change so much, if sooner or later he’s not going to find himself wanting to stray. What he had with Drake, that’s over with and he knows it. Sure, there’s still that odd yet thrilling kind of tension between them of old lovers who know each other better than most and who never quite put a definite stop to what they had, them being forced apart more by circumstance than of their own will, but there is to be no rekindling of old passions and that’s not why he sought him out. But in the past Moran used to have a different sexual partner every night some weeks. He used to scoff at the idea of settling down, taking a nice wife and leading a more sedate life. Well, true enough, he has no wife still, and his life with Moriarty is not precisely sedate, but he’s settled; he’s _committed_ , his loyalty to the professor such that he would no more want to cheat on him with another _intimate_ partner than he would want to leave his employment. It’s not that his attraction to the professor troubles him – he sees it as no sin nor sickness.  It’s just… when did he, Colonel Sebastian Moran, brave soldier, seemingly fearless big game hunter, a man who appeared to be far more afraid of living a boring life than he ever was of dying, begin to desire such relative _safety_?

   If Drake scoffs at the idea that Moran has truly changed his nature Moran can well understand why. Still though it irks him to be questioned so, as it irked him when once a rival of Moriarty’s offered him a great deal of money to betray the professor, although certainly there are different levels to his ire and he is not going to shoot Drake in the head, unlike that other fellow.

   Drake watches Moran preparing his cigarette now, his gaze resting on Moran’s long, strong fingers as he carefully and methodically rolls up the tobacco before finally lighting it.

   “D’you love him?” he asks, and Moran snorts.

   “What do you think?” he asks before taking a pull on his cigarette. Perhaps though the question is not entirely a rhetorical one.

   “I think you have a soft underbelly like those tigers you used to be so fond of hunting,” Drake replies, watching him steadily through the cigarette smoke. “Just you don’t show it to many people.”

   “Same as you then, huh? I’ve seen you, Ben, behaving like Reid’s pitbull, attacking on command. Got you on a proper collar and lead, he has.”

   Perhaps Drake flushes slightly at this now, embarrassed at the recollection of the times he has behaved like the inspector’s thug, despite all his desires to try to better himself, although in the shadow it’s hard to tell. “And you are so different, are you? Seems to me like your professor has you collared and chained to him even tighter.”

    If he had intended to provoke Moran though with this remark he is to be disappointed. “Perhaps.” Moran flashes him a wicked grin. “Perhaps though, unlike you, I kept my teeth and claws intact even so.” And indeed there is that flicker in his eyes, that darkness, not just the sense of danger steeped into his being but the notion that Colonel Moran considers himself to be very much apart from the rest of society, not bound by its rules and subservient only to Professor Moriarty. “What would you do if I answered ‘yes’ to your question?” he enquires. “Wouldn’t you feel an obligation to arrest me?”

   Drake leans back in his seat, tilting up his chin. “Not for that.”

   Moran grins still. “Aye, it’d be rather hypocritical of you, I s’pose.” He leans forward a degree again, gaze still meeting Drake’s, but amused still. “Does she make you happy, Bennet? Your Bella?”

   Drake cannot help but smile fondly. “That she does. She’s a fine woman.”

   “Then I’m happy for you. Some of us are meant for the whole wife and family lark, some of us ain’t, but you…you was always meant for that.”

   “And what are you meant for then?”

   “Bigger things, Bennet, much greater things.” He says this with such a self-confident air that Drake suspects it is no mere idle boast. Jamming the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, he stands and sweeps his hat off the table. “I’d best be headed home. Reckon you should do the same now, don’t want to disappoint the charming Bella.” Briefly taking his cigarette from his mouth again he snatches up his glass and downs the remainder of its contents in a gulp.

   “Wait,” says Drake, rising also but impulsively putting a hand on Moran’s wrist before he can turn away. “One question, are _you_ happy? With him?”

  Moran’s gaze had dropped to Drake’s hand the instant he touched him but now he looks up at him, frowning slightly as he thinks this over. He removes the cigarette from his mouth once more and holds it, smouldering faintly, between his thumb and index finger. “Yes,” he says at last. “Yes, I am.”

   Drake relinquishes his hold on Moran’s arm. “Then I’m glad too.”

  The briefest of smiles – one that shows in his eyes and not just upon his lips – crosses Moran’s face, and he pulls away. “We’ll send a dinner invitation for you and Mrs Drake shortly.”

  “We’ll look forward to it.”

   “Be seeing you around, Ben.” Moran tips his hat and then just like that he’s gone, slipping out into the night like a shadow, leaving just the lingering aroma of his tobacco smoke behind.

~

 

   He’s later home than he told Bella he’d be and he curses himself inwardly for it, knowing that even though she’s not quite mastered the art of cookery yet she tries her hardest to have something nice waiting for him and now he’s let her down. When he enters their little house now he can smell burning and he finds Bella looking flushed and dishevelled, flapping a cloth over something that might once have been a pie to waft away the smoke.

   “I’m sorry,” she says upon seeing him. “I tried, I did, and it looked so nice and all but I thought you’d be home sooner and I forgot it was still cooking and now it’s ruined.”

   Her downcast look nearly breaks his heart, and he steps towards her, firmly taking the plate with the burnt pie on it from her hands and setting it aside before drawing her into an embrace. “It’s all right my love,” he soothes, stroking her hair. “It’s my fault, I bumped into an old friend and lost track of time, I’m sorry, but I’m sure dinner’s still all right.”

   “It’s not, it’s spoilt,” she says, burying her head against his shoulder for a few moments. “It’s spoilt because I’m silly and forgetful.”

   “You’re not silly, it were my fault, I should have come home when I said.” He continues to stroke her hair, finding something endearing in how curls of it have come loose from the pins that hold it up. “Maybe we could…” He glances over the top of her head at the pie and quickly changes his mind about suggesting a bit of gravy would see it right. “Well, what if I nipped out and got us some fish and chips instead?”

   “I just wanted to cook for you, Bennet.”

   “I know you did, lass, but you can try again tomorrow. I’ll go and get the fish and chips.” He smiles at her, trying to reassure her without words that everything is all right and everything will continue to be all right and that a few mistakes with the cooking don’t mean anything, that nothing, least of all her being a terrible cook, could ever possibly shake his belief that she is the most wonderful thing to have happened to him. He brushes his fingers gently across her cheek before kissing her lightly on the forehead. He’s about to turn away then and retrieve his hat when she catches his hand, pulling him back to face her.

   “Bennet.” Smiling up at him through her bitter disappointment in herself, reaching up to cup his cheek in her palm, and now she stretches up and kisses him on the lips very softly, a kiss he returns in kind. It is a brief kiss, not deep, one shared between two people very much in love but who are still trying to work out the intricacies of their relationship whilst neither of them is entirely convinced that they deserve the other but who both hope the other will stay anyway. When the kiss reaches its natural end she steps back a pace but her hand lingers upon his cheek for a moment more before she pulls away entirely. “Go get the fish and chips,” she says. “I’ll get this smoke out of here.”

    As Drake goes back out in the street it’s starting to rain, yet he hardly notices and cares even less. He can still feel the lingering brush of Bella’s lips against his own; the gentle touch of her fingers upon his cheek, and to know that he loves and is loved by a good woman, it’s enough to keep out the chill and the damp.

   Bennet Drake is the happiest he has ever been. 

~

 

    Moran is wet through by the time he gets back and cursing at the unseasonable chill in the air.

   “I expected you back sooner,” Moriarty informs him, stepping into the hallway and handing a warm, neatly folded towel to the dripping colonel.

   “I had business to take care of– Thank you,” Moran says, taking the towel from him and using it to dry his face.

   “Ah, business,” Moriarty says with a wry smile. “So how _is_ Sergeant Drake this evening?”

   Moran gives him a sidelong glance but doesn’t bother to ask how he knows. It’s probably something as trifling as the mud on his boots or the intensity of his soaking that has given away where he’s been and who he’s encountered, that or that simply by now Moriarty knows him entirely too well. “Well; perfectly well,” he answers, towelling his hair.

   “It seemed to me when we encountered the sergeant and Mrs Drake in the park that you and he had certain… unfinished business.”

   “I ain’t shagged him again if that’s what you’re implying.” Moran says this without any malice, even perhaps with a hint of amusement, for he knows that really this is not what Moriarty was hinting at. He follows Moriarty into the sitting room, trying not to drip on the rugs too much.

    “I did not mean that sort of unfinished business.” Moriarty sits down upon the sofa before the hearth, where Moran is relieved to see a fire is already going.

    “Mm, well, I s’pose you could say yes I had some unfinished business with him,” he says, seating himself beside the professor.

    “And is this business now concluded?” Moriarty turns towards him, studying Moran’s face intently.

    “It is, yes.”

    “And you remain on amicable terms with the sergeant?”

    “Yes Professor, I do.”

    “Very well.” And that is all Moriarty says on the matter, there is no further questioning, no interrogation about the nature of Moran’s encounter with Drake or about his feelings, past or present, for him, nor any demands that Moran cease relations with the sergeant at once, and this touches Moran. For all Moriarty’s dominance; for all that he loves to be in control, he does not pry into those very rare matters that Moran wishes to keep private and he does not attempt to dictate to him how to behave or who he is permitted to see, not unless he fears somehow for Moran’s wellbeing. “Get yourself dried off and warmed up and then we shall have supper, hmm?”

    “Yes Professor.”

    Moriarty smiles kindly and runs a hand over Moran’s damp, tousled hair, carefully smoothing it down, before he leans forward and places the lightest of kisses on Moran’s lips. Small gestures, yet ones that speak volumes where neither of them can put their thoughts and feelings into words. They can no more give voice to their deeply buried fears that each is not enough for the other any more than Moriarty can vocally express his deep and abiding affection for Moran, or Moran can speak of his gratitude to the professor for providing him with structure and control in his life without ever trying to oppress him or, yes, even the depths of his love for Moriarty. In some regards they are both still finding their footing with their relationship, but they know each other well enough by now to be able to grasp much of what remains unspoken.

    Moran shuffles forward slightly so that now he is able to lean against the professor, and Moriarty, despite the fact that Moran is still damp, does not merely permit this but even slides his arm around Moran. They remain like this for some minutes, both silent but with the silence settled over them like a comforting blanket, only broken by the tick of the clock and the crackle of the fire. The warmth of the latter’s flames and of Moriarty’s body too seep through Moran, seeing off the dampness and the cold, until he lets out a little sigh of pleasure, feeling warm, contented, and very, very happy.

 


End file.
